The screams of children are drown out by the wailing of their mothers.
Oh geez. I’ve been sitting here – literally for minutes! – trying to think of what to blog about; meditating on current events both in my life and on this wacky planet we call Bruggafaderöllfyrwabbanonie (though “we” are a chosen few and most people prefer the moniker “Earth”), and couldn’t come up with anything special about today. I finally thought to visit my friend Wikipedia for some thrills, chills and spills in the form of their random article feature, only to suddenly remember that today is [insert cuss word here] Easter.
It’s Easter, brother! How could I not notice?
I’ll tell you how: I have no kids in my life. No one excited that an anthropomorphized rabbit might be prowling in the night, leaving artificially-colored produce is sneaky spots around our property (how kids think this is “neat” is beyond me and perhaps bespeaks to an aggravated psychological wound in our collective consciousness). My youngest nephews are all in Northern California, safely out of reach from Melrose brunches and Angelyne billboards; the closest thing to a child in my life is the kitten we just rescued. (Her name is Maybe.)
"My name is Maybe. I like chasing toy mice, eating, napping in sunbeams, and
diversifying my investment portfolio among stocks, bonds and money market securities,
so I can lower my overall investment risk."
What’s a dashingly handsome, thirtysomething, childless, city-dwelling, agnostic dude like myself to do on Easter? Volunteer to hide eggs for the homeless? (Is that even a good idea?) Leave a chocolate egg hidden under the pillow of my boyfriend? (That is not a good idea.)
The last Easter I enjoyed was April 11, 1982. I was eight. For whatever reason – the afterglow of hunting for eggs, the sugar rush of countless maltballs and marshmallows pushing my mind to precocious speculation – it occurred to me to ask my father:
“Pop? Is there really such a thing as an Easter Bunny?”
My Dad, who didn’t raise me and wasn’t confident dealing with children, looked helplessly to my older sister Jenny for help. Between the two of them, I learned the truth about said Bunny, plus, as an additional innocence-crusher, Santa Claus. I wept in my Father’s arms for about and hour, then returned to eating candy, trying to displace depression with Cadbury Crème Eggs.
Xanax for fat kids.
It’s oddly gloomy in Los Angeles today, and what with remembering the above story, I feel like my mood has been soaking in a bowl of PAAS blue tablet colored dye.
So here’s some music I like to listen to when I’m feeling melancholy. Happy Easter, I guess. Is there whiskey inside any of these plastic eggs…?